William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Sue did not answer. She closed the door to slide the chain off, then swung the door wide. She held a large black plastic garbage bag in her left hand, her arm extended as if she were handing me a bag of rubbish.
“He does not have many things here,” Sue said. “Most of his toys were left at your house.”
“Where is Owen?” I asked.
She pointed toward the kitchen at the end of the long, dark hallway. The house smelled of stale cabbage and floor cleaner, a heavy, medicinal scent that reminded me of the foster homes of my youth.
Owen was sitting on a yellow vinyl chair at the kitchen table, his small legs dangling six inches above the linoleum. He was wearing his red sweater, and his small hands were flat on the table, his fingers tracing the pattern of the formica.
“Daddy,” he whispered. He did not move from the chair, his eyes wide and uncertain as he looked past me toward his grandmother.
“Come on, buddy,” I said, walking into the kitchen and kneeling beside the table. “We are going to go for a ride.”
